A Siege of Bitterns: Birder Murder Mystery 1

Summary

Newly appointed police inspector Domenic Jejeune doesn’t mind ruffling a few feathers. Indeed his success has elevated him into a poster boy for the police. The problem is Jejeune doesn’t really want to be a detective at all; he much prefers watching birds.

Recently reassigned to the small Norfolk town of Saltmarsh, located in the heart of Britain’s premier birding country, Jejeune’s two worlds collide with the grisly murder of a prominent ecological activist. His ambitious police superintendent foresees a blaze of welcome publicity, although doubts soon emerge when Jejeune’s best theory involves a feud over birdwatching lists. A second murder does little to bolster confidence.

Jejeune must call on all his birding knowhow to solve the mystery and deal with unwelcome public acclaim, the mistrust of colleagues and his own insecurities. For, in the case of the Saltmarsh birder murders, the victims may not be the only casualties

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A Siege of Bitterns - Steve Burrows

50

1

At its widest point, the marsh stretched almost a quarter of a mile across the north Norfolk coastline. Here, the river that had flowed like a silver ribbon through the rolling farmlands to the west finally came to rest, spilling its contents across the flat terrain, smoothing out the uneven contours, seeping silently into every corner. From this point on, tiny rivulets, no wider than a man’s stride, would trace their way between the dunes and shale banks to complete the river’s final journey out to sea.

At the margins of land and water, the marsh belonged to neither, and it carried the disquieting wildness of all forsaken things. Onshore winds rattled the dry reeds like hollow bones. The peaty tang of decaying vegetation and wet earth hung in the air. An hour earlier, the watery surface of the wetland had shimmered like polished copper; a fluid mirror for the last rays of the setting sun. But now, the gathering gloom had transformed the marsh into a dark, featureless emptiness.

To the west of the marsh, a row of ancient willows rose out of the flat landscape, marking the inland limits of the wetland’s spread. Beyond the trees, the land climbed gently to a small, flat-topped rise, where a single house perched on the crest. Lights burned in the downstairs window, a small whisper of defiance against the darkness; a beacon to declare a human toehold on the edge of this raw, unnatural nature.

On a narrow path threading between the willows, two silhouettes moved in loose harmony. The recent tidal surges had left the water levels lapping over the edges of the pathway, so that it was no longer wide enough for the pair to walk side by side. Instead, the man picked his way along carefully in front, one hand clutching the binoculars dangling from his neck, to prevent them from bouncing against his chest. The dog roamed along easily behind him, stopping occasionally to paw at the debris on the path left behind by the now receding waters. The man scooped up a branch from the path and flung it out over the water, sending the dog crashing after it in a silvery spray. He looked at his watch and quickened his pace along the path, as if the coming darkness might hold danger. Or opportunity. The water-soaked dog scrambled ashore and fell in behind him, its hard-won prize dangling from its mouth.

As the path turned away from the marsh, it began to widen out. The dog surged ahead of the man now. Guided by long habit, it pressed on alone, sure of the route as it began to wend its way deeper amongst the willows. By the time the man arrived at the first bend, the dog had disappeared from view. The man checked his watch again and looked behind him, ahead, all around. Satisfied, or otherwise, he pressed on along the path.

Perhaps he had caught sight of it before he rounded the bend, sensed even, somehow, that it was there. Had there been a feeling of foreboding, of uneasiness, as he approached? All he knew for certain was that his first reaction was not surprise. Alarm, certainly, at the grotesque sight that greeted him. And horror, naturally. But by then, the dog had begun barking, rearing up on its hind legs to confront this unnatural apparition.

He knew immediately what it was, and that, too, lessened the shock. He did not need the groaning of the willow branch to confirm its burden. Even against the dark spiderweb of branches above him, the man could make out the form. Even before the freshening wind from the coast began to slowly twirl the shape and ease it out to describe its perfect, dreadful arc above the path, he knew.

He sat down on a log and took out his mobile phone. And waited for it to ring.

2

Tony Holland cursed again as his Audi A5 hit another pothole and bounced violently. He was certain he was going to snap an axle if he had to go much farther down this rutted laneway. No wonder Danny Maik had been so quick to accept when Tony had offered to pick up the new DCI. He should have known; Maik smiling that sly smile of his and thanking Tony for helping out like that. Holland owed him one. I mean, a joke was a joke, but putting his new Audi through this ... that was right out of order.

Holland looked out at the monochrome countryside surrounding him. He didn’t need daylight to remind him what this part of the world looked like. Not for the first time, he wondered what would possess anyone to choose to live out here. Okay, if things were really tight and this was all you could afford, maybe. But on a DCI’s salary? His new boss could have bought one of those brand new condos down near the waterfront — wave pool, exercise room, the lot. Instead, he had chosen this, living out his very own remake of Little House on the Prairie, or whatever, out among the mud and the fields and the rutted, pot-holed driveways.

The car lurched suddenly to the right. A water-filled crater wide enough to swallow his front tire all but wrenched the steering wheel from Holland’s hands, sending the headlight beams up into the treetops. That was it. Any more of this and he was parking up. The new DCI could bloody well walk down. But the pothole proved to be the laneway’s last hurrah, and Holland lurched gratefully to a halt in front of the DCI’s house.

The cottage was a two-storey gabled affair: a solid, stonewalled structure with corners dressed in brick. Holland had seen a thousand like it throughout the county. Never once had it occurred to him that he might like to live in one. Like most properties of this age, this place looked like it needed a bit of a touch-up here and there, though it would be cosy enough on the inside, no doubt. Just what was it, this fascination the townies had with renovating these aging places, when you could get something new and maintenance-free for the same money?

A young woman was leaning in the open doorway as Holland pulled up, cradling a coffee mug to her chest. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a loose-fitting cableknit sweater. Holland suspected that the sweater might belong to the new DCI. Not the jeans, though; they were clearly all hers. He checked his smile in the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair before getting out of the car.

It’s so wonderful to be able to see the stars. In the city, it never seems to get dark enough, said the young woman by way of a greeting. She laughed, Don’t mind me. I suppose we are all the same when we first come out here, aren’t we? I’m Lindy. She offered a hand and flicked her head toward the open door. He’ll be out in a minute. I’d offer you some coffee, but I suspect he will want to be off right away.

Well, she certainly wasn’t Canadian, judging by that accent. They must have met over here. Holland introduced himself, giving it a little bit extra. If Lindy was going to be drawing any lines between the local yokels and tony ex-urbanites, he was keen to end up on the right side. And not just for his boss’s sake, either. She was definitely worth some attention, this one. And some might say paying attention to deserving females was Tony Holland’s specialty. So if it was stars she wanted to talk about, well, then, Lindy would learn how the stars out here were always best after a heavy rain, and how, sometimes, they seemed so close you felt like you could just reach out and touch them with your fingertips, and … Holland heard a man’s voice calling from somewhere inside the house and Lindy rolled herself off the door jamb and went inside. Holland leaned on his car and lit a cigarette. His celestial poetry would just have to wait for another time.

Domenic Jejeune was hunting for his mobile phone amidst piles of newspaper on the dining room table. Lindy picked up the phone from a sideboard and handed it to him.

I thought you said he would be an antique, the one picking you up. ‘Standard issue ex-army plod,’ I believe was the term. I was expecting some grizzled old sapper with a broken nose and a cauliflower ear. This one looks younger than you.

Perhaps he uses Botox, said Jejeune, shrugging himself into his jacket. Have you seen my notebook anywhere?

Quite dishy, in fact, continued Lindy, producing a small black book from among the piles of paper on the table and handing it to Jejeune, in a predatory, ladykiller kind of way, of course. Not that I’d get much of a look in, I suspect. The way he nursed that car along the driveway, I’d say any young lady is going to be coming a distant second in Constable Holland’s affections. Are you okay?

She paused and examined Jejeune’s face carefully. It was the same look she had seen so many times recently. Uncertainty? Reluctance? It wouldn’t be surprising. It had been a trying few weeks; the move, the new position, all the attention. A few doubts would be perfectly understandable. But Lindy knew it wasn’t just that.

Domenic looked at her. Why don’t you go back to bed? he said gently. You must be exhausted.

I’m up now. I may as well do some more unpacking. She kissed his ear. Good luck. And remember, be nice to Constable Holland. It’s not his fault you’ve been called out at this ungodly hour.

I’ll keep it in mind, said Jejeune.

He gave her a peck on the cheek and walked out to the waiting car. Nodding an acknowledgement to Holland, Jejeune folded back the front passenger seat and got into the back. If Holland had any thoughts about this, he kept them to himself.

Sergeant Maik sends his regrets, sir, said Holland, straining to make eye contact with his new boss via the rear-view mirror as he pulled away from the house. It takes him a bit longer to get going these days, especially with him just coming back to active duty and all. Not to imply anything, sir. Sergeant Maik is a fine police officer. It’s just that …

How is he at keeping his eyes on the road when he drives? asked Jejeune. I can’t imagine what sort of damage an uneven driveway like this could do to an A5’s suspension system.

And having successfully punctured Holland’s conversation balloon for the remainder of the trip, Detective Chief Inspector Domenic Jejeune settled back into his seat and stared out the window at a soothing composition entitled Saltmarsh Countryside by Night.

3

Jejeune stood at the edge of a rise, staring down into the arclit theatre of activity below. White-suited officers moved about purposefully, pursuing their singular tasks, seemingly oblivious to one another, or even the shrouded body lying at the foot of the giant willow tree. A border of yellow police tape enclosed the area, and even from here, Jejeune could hear it snapping in the wind. He drew up his collar. The wind had picked up, carrying in the damp air off the sea. Proper daylight was still some way off, and he knew these officers would be cold and tired by the time they wrapped up their activities.

Jejeune knew his presence had been noted the moment he had arrived, even before he had issued the order to bring the body down. Word had already spread that the chief superintendent had delayed calling in SOCO. There would be nothing much in the way of forensic evidence at such a windswept, uncontained scene of crime anyway, but she clearly intended this to be Jejeune’s investigation. He knew that if it was this obvious to him, it had already occurred to the other officers on the scene, the ones who were now waiting expectantly for him to finally descend into the arena himself. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. A local celebrity, a TV personality at that. And with a world-famous wife. It was hardly the sort of introduction he would have wanted. But putting it off wasn’t going to make things any easier. He took his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together. Time to act.

For a big man, Danny Maik moved across the soft ground with surprising nimbleness. He picked his way along the edge of the marsh and stopped on the far side of the willow tree. From this point on, he would approach the body with his eyes only.

Tony Holland was leaning against the tree smoking a cigarette.

So you got the old short straw, eh? With Captain Canada, he said. What a welcome to come back to.

Maik shrugged. And here I’d led such a charmed life up till now, having officers like you for company. Besides, I’ve never had any problems with Canadians. The ones I’ve met have always seemed all right.

I hear they’ve already found the stepladder, said Holland, when Maik failed to rise to the bait. In the shed next to the house. A bit clever, that.

Maik nodded his agreement. It was. Present the evidence to the police on a plate like this, and you discouraged them from poking around trying to find it on their own, when they might turn up who knows what else. Maik knew that murder generally induced a state of panic. A killer thinking clearly enough to replace evidence like this would also have the presence of mind to remove any incriminating clues. Forensics would check out the mud-caked stepladder as a matter of course, but there would be nothing there to help them.

Maik’s eyes remained fixed on the plastic-covered form on the far side of the tree. Did he say why he wanted the body down so soon?

Holland shrugged. Didn’t want him swinging round in the breeze when the press arrived, I suppose. Grain sack over the head, wrists and ankles in chains. Might hog the spotlight, a thing like that.

And did he tell them they should set it there, or did they come to that brilliant decision all by themselves?

He just said to bring it down. He didn’t say where to leave it.

Holland stubbed out the remains of his cigarette and eased himself up from the tree trunk. He seemed to spot a situation requiring his attention and began walking toward the centre of the clearing. If Danny Maik was going to start making a fuss about something, a bit of distance was never a bad idea.

Maik retraced his steps along the edge of the marsh and rounded up a small posse of uniformed constables. From a distance, Jejeune watched the easy authority with which Maik addressed the young police officers. Steady, measured tones; clear, precise instructions; and just the right amount of eye contact. Born to command, some people.

Again, Maik told them. Approaching from the head and feet only, two men each end, and lifting straight up. Then moving off to the right. Remember, he’s going to be a lot heavier than you expect, and the mud isn’t going to help any, either. So go slowly. And let’s show him a bit of respect, shall we.

I think he’s past caring, Sarge, said one of the young constables.

Then we’d better make sure that we’re not, hadn’t we, said Maik evenly. Because when a man’s death stops affecting you, Constable, it’s time to find another line of work.

The group moved off silently, tracked by Maik’s unwavering gaze. He didn’t turn as Jejeune approached, speaking over his shoulder instead. He didn’t mean anything by it, sir. They’re not quite sure how to handle it, that’s all. I doubt any of them have been this close to violent death before.

But you have, thought Jejeune. You know about violent death, and indignity, and lifting bodies out of the mud.

Another footprint? asked Jejeune. Two sets had been found on the path leading down from the house, but they had disappeared in the morass of mud beneath the willow tree.

Maik was still watching the group as they approached the shrouded form beneath the tree. Can’t be sure until they lift the body away, but there’s definitely something there, just by the left hip.

At the first lift, one of the men lost his footing, causing the entire group to lurch to one side.

Steady, shouted Maik, leaning forward like an anxious football father on the touchline. He turned to Jejeune. Of course, whether it’ll still be there or not after this bloody lot have finished performing is another matter. Er, Chief Inspector.

An awkward silence settled between the two men, amplified by the activity and commotion going on all around them. Jejeune extended his hand. I’d hoped to get acquainted under better circumstances.

Maik inclined his head. Yes, sir.

Jejeune was not sorry the sergeant had missed his introduction to the ranks the day before. The breathless entrance into the cafeteria; the detective chief superintendent with Jejeune in tow; the startled look of the ambushed diners, before most of them had even done justice to the day’s first cup of tea. Jejeune had been not so much presented as thrust upon them. The media were already onto the story of Jejeune’s appointment, the DCS had explained as they were hurrying toward the cafeteria. God knows how they got these leads. Still, she had managed to get them a couple of minutes before the story was released to the online editions.

Jejeune had returned DCS Shepherd’s terse smile.

It was important, the DCS continued, that the station hear it directly from her first. Better to set things straight right from the start. After all, who knew what spin those idiots in the press were likely to put on this.

I’m assigning you Sergeant Maik, she had told Jejeune as they walked. He’s good, but he’s just back from medical leave, so you’ll have to keep an eye on him.

And suddenly they were at the cafeteria and, without further ado, it gave her great pleasure to announce the appointment of Detective Chief Inspector Domenic Jejeune, an officer whose extraordinary rise through the ranks was already well-documented, and was yet all the more remarkable given his … his lack of … grey hair. A weak smile, met by a few forced returns from the crowd.

And there it was. In a single sentence, the two themes Domenic Jejeune would rather have avoided at all costs: his fame and his youth.

No point pussyfooting around, Domenic. It’s not as if they won’t have noticed, is it? Better get things out into the open, so they can come to terms with it and get on about their business. Glad to have you on board, of course, delighted, but the less disruptive your appointment turns out to be, the better all round. Agreed?

Agreed. But exactly how was it going to be better all round for him to have to prove himself once more against suspicions about his age and his reputation, instead of just getting on with his job? So even as Jejeune stepped forward to articulate, in that slightly accented, self-effacing style that the media loved, just how proud and privileged he felt to be a part of the North Norfolk Constabulary, which was itself renowned for its forward thinking and innovative approaches, he was aware that the job that lay ahead of him had suddenly become that much harder.

He had noted their responses. Nothing overt, no rolling of the eyes, no smirks; but then, there hardly would have been with the formidable presence of the DCS by his side. But a slight stiffening of shoulders, the faintest turning away of a head; it was there if you knew what to look for. And Jejeune did. But could they see through his veneer, too? Could they tell, as he delivered his speech in a tone as smooth as melting chocolate, what was really in his heart? Could they sense his doubts and fears? His reluctance?

Jejeune stole a glance now at Maik, still watching the recovery party. No, you weren’t there, he thought, but there would have been no shortage of people lining up to tell you about it. Like this one approaching now. Holland.

Terrible, eh, sir? And him a television personality, too. Did you know him at all?

Jejeune didn’t answer.

I’ve had a word with the man who found the body. Not much help. Holland consulted his notebook. Dr. Michael Porter. A local vet. He’s a bit cool, though, all the same. Just called us straight off and sat down and waited. Made no effort to get the body down, do CPR, nothing like that.

No, said Jejeune thoughtfully, he wouldn’t have.

Holland looked at Maik.

He’s a vet, said Maik. He’d recognize a lost cause when he saw one.

Still, you’d think he might try, if only for form’s sake. He was out here doing a bit of birdwatching when he found the body. Avid birder, apparently. He made a special trip tonight looking for something called a Bittern. Word is you do a bit of birding yourself, sir. Have you heard of that one?

Avid. That’s what he said? Not a professional then.

Holland couldn’t suppress a smirk. I don’t think he’s won any medals at it, he said, cocking a sly grin toward Maik. But he seems keen enough. He said he’d only been here about ten minutes. Parked his car on the far side, and walked around here with his dog.

We’ve got his details, so what do you reckon, sir? Send him home?

No, said Jejeune, not just yet.

Jejeune stared at the man sitting on a fold-up chair in the tent. Michael Porter looked unconcerned, distracted almost. A man used to pronouncing death; sure, confident, controlled. A man aware that he is at the centre of a great commotion and doing everything he can to portray himself as the soul of calm. He might still be fighting the shock of finding the body, but inwardly, Dr. Porter would surely be relishing this role.

Jejeune approached the man and took a seat opposite him. Holland made the introductions.

So, what were you doing out here, Dr. Porter? asked Jejeune amicably.

Birdwatching, I was hoping to get a Bittern. There’s some excellent habitat for them here, and one was reported in the area recently. I have actually covered all this with the constable, Chief Inspector.

I meant what were you actually doing, under the guise of birdwatching?

I beg your pardon. What are you suggesting?

I’m suggesting that you are not telling us the truth about why you were here, Dr. Porter. Jejeune indicated the mud-splattered dog lying contentedly beneath the vet’s chair. No birder serious enough to make a special trip out here in the hopes of seeing a Bittern is going to allow his dog to go splashing around in the marsh and trundle unleashed up and down the pathways.

Jejeune paused, but Dr. Porter had nothing to say.

I have no reason to doubt that you are a birder. Jejeune nodded toward the man’s binoculars, a pair of high-end Opticrons. But that’s not why you came here tonight.

Porter’s anger was palpable. This is ridiculous. No wonder people are reluctant to get involved these days. You try to help out, and this is the way you are treated.

Jejeune kept his stare fixed on the man, but Maik’s and Holland’s eyes were locked unwaveringly on the chief inspector. When he spoke slowly like this, his accent was all but undetectable.

Jejeune sighed. Dr. Porter, he said, the Bittern habitat you spoke of is over on the far side of the marsh, close to where you parked your car. There is virtually no cover at all on this side for a secretive bird like the Bittern. It’s far too open. And besides, anyone looking for a crepuscular species would have been in position long before you got here. So why were you here, Dr. Porter, if not to look for a Bittern? Would you please show the sergeant your mobile phone?

I most certainly will not.

Jejeune leaned forward and spoke quietly and evenly, like a man explaining the rules of a game to a child. His tone was as calm and reasonable as before. Dr. Porter, I need a clear picture of what happened here tonight, and at the moment, you are casting shadows. How deeply I have to dig into your personal affairs to get my clear picture is up to you.

Jejeune paused again, waiting to see if it would be enough.

There was no physical indication that Dr. Porter had capitulated, no drooping of the shoulders, no slumping forward. He remained sitting upright, staring into the middle distance as resolutely as before. Only his voice changed. It was quieter now, less assertive.

I was meeting a man, he … I buy drugs from him. It’s not what you think. Medical supplies, for my practice. Acetylpromazine, Tranexamic Acid, that sort of thing. They’re incredibly expensive and, well, he gives me a good price. I … that is to say, they may not be stolen. I don’t ask. I don’t even know his name. He calls me, ID blocked, before we meet, just to confirm there are no problems. I waited for his call tonight and as soon as he rang off, I called the police about this awful business, I swear it.

What did you tell him?

Nothing. Just not to come. That there had been a murder and the police would be arriving shortly. That’s all. He said he was calling to cancel anyway. He said he would get in touch with me later. Then he hung up.

He didn’t ask about the body?

The vet shook his head. He rubbed his face with his hands, letting his fingers run up into his hairline. Beneath the chair, the dog stirred into life and raised its head.

Please wait here.

Jejeune led Holland and Maik out of the tent and turned to face them. Constable Holland, take Dr. Porter home and collect all the drugs he has bought from this man. Let’s see if we can trace the supplier through their batch numbers.

You think there might be a connection?

A man tells you a body has turned up at a place you are supposed to meet, and you don’t ask any questions. At all?

Maik reached for his own phone. I’ll try to run a trace on that incoming call, shall I?

Jejeune pulled a face. Anybody that cautious will be using a pay-as-you-go disposable, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to be sure. I’ll check what else we have here and then you and I can go on up to the house.

Jejeune marched off toward the crowd of officers still working the crime scene. The two men watched him go.

Holland let out a long, theatrical breath. "And just what the hell does crepuscular mean?"

It means, said Maik, his eyes tracking the senior officer into the crowd, that Chief Inspector Jejeune has just announced his arrival. I believe what you have just seen, young Holland, is the unusual sight of somebody auditioning for a role after they’ve already been given the part. Now get this bloke home and pick up those drugs.

4

Dawn was still some way off when Jejeune and Maik climbed the small rise to the house. They entered from the garden and found themselves in the kitchen. A uniformed constable approached Maik and murmured quietly to him. If Jejeune was concerned that the officer had gone to the sergeant, rather than himself, he didn’t let it show. He paused to look back at the doorway, through which the killer had almost certainly led his victim on his final journey.

The wife is with her doctor, apparently, said Maik. Her personal assistant was wondering if our interview could wait. She can stay to give us her own statement, if necessary, but she would prefer to be upstairs, too. They have both been away for a couple of days. Just got back late last evening. Saw nothing, heard nothing. Oh, and the record company is asking to be kept informed of developments. Just as a courtesy.

Jejeune looked at the tall young woman hovering at the foot of the staircase. She was right out of the PA mould, impeccably dressed, pretty enough, but careful to keep it in check; presentable and professional, but not enough to take the shine off her boss. She had the right amount of detachment, too. She would use the word regrettably a lot when she told people they wouldn’t be seeing Ms. Brae today. And there would be the smile, the one that told them there was no room for argument. She knew enough not to smile at the two men now, but she conveyed her thanks with a slight nod as Jejeune waved her upstairs.

The detectives went down a wide hallway into a large sitting room. Even to Maik’s untutored eye, there seemed a lack of balance in the furniture. Small, homely items, a well-worn chair, a battered side table, fought for space among the high-class furnishings, as if someone had tried to accommodate them long after the room had been expensively and professionally set up.

A robust fire burned in a fireplace on the wall opposite the door. A brittle air of calm hung in the room, poised, as if the slightest disturbance might shatter it. In a wing-backed chair near the fire, a man’s profile was visible. He was gazing into the flames, his face pale, unclouded by expression. A uniformed constable standing near the doorway nodded his head subtly in the direction of the man. Jejeune motioned for Maik to take the lead. Perhaps it was some sort of test, like in the army. See what the chap’s made of, what? Maik was unconcerned. He would just do his job, and leave others to worry about the performance reviews. He approached the man and drew up a chair to sit beside him.

Malcolm Brae? I’m Sergeant Maik. Please accept my condolences. However, we do need to ask you a few questions, sir.

The man nodded without speaking.

With a skill born of long practice, Maik walked him through the rudimentaries. Brae had come straight over as soon as the call came from the police. He had been at his own house, in his workshop, actually, finishing up a special order. Maik moved on to the secondary level inquiries, covering his points carefully, but not endowing any of them with particular significance. When had Malcolm Brae last seen his father? Was it normal for his father to be home alone in